


Thanks to the barbarians

by queen_jadis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post Mary, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_jadis/pseuds/queen_jadis
Summary: John and Sherlock get married for a case, which both of them find hilarious - until they realise that they can't get a divorce. The offensive piece of paper has more effect on their relationship than John thinks it has any right to do.





	1. Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to [a_candle_for_sherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock) who beta-read this thing - that woman has a good eye for detail and an excellent sense of both style and storytelling. I apologise for my remaining errors.

John had probably never rolled his eyes as hard as he did the day Sherlock told him, that due to “unforeseen circumstances,” they needed to get married. Within a glacier. With a stuffed polar-bear in attendance, the ceremony officiated by a mumbling, bearded man in a primitive-looking robes.

It was for a case, naturally. And Mycroft would sort it all out afterwards, so that it would be like it never happened. All quite mundane, Sherlock assured him.

Right.

But obviously John went along with it. He said yes to the bearded man whenever he asked anything; he puckered his lips and endured a quick peck from his new husband, who didn’t even spare John a glance as he scanned the sparse group of people in attendance.

Because that was just the sort of thing you did, working with Sherlock Holmes. You did all sorts of stupid things – although John reserved the right to roll his eyes at them as much as he deemed appropriate.

Luckily, the terrorist they were chasing was lurking among the hotel staff during the ceremony, unable to resist the spectacle of Sherlock Holmes marrying his Dr. Watson. It all worked out rather well.

The wedding night was spent in a high chase on snowmobile. The next afternoon they flew back to London, pleased with a job well done and a handsome fee from Mycroft in the bank. The event was hardly spoken of again, except in jest, when fighting over money or household chores.

John noticed that Sherlock didn’t mention it as much as he did. Sherlock seemed a bit nervous about it – which John found almost sweet. Certainly both of them avoided mentioning John’s first marriage, so maybe Sherlock was being considerate by avoiding the topic of marriage altogether. Or maybe he was being considerate towards John’s heterosexuality. Sherlock being considerate about anything at all was rather endearing, so John didn’t really mind what it was about.

All things told, it was hardly the craziest thing they had ever done. At some point in the future they’d probably do something even stupider. It wasn’t a big deal.

At least John didn’t think so until he found Sherlock drunk in the sitting room at two in the afternoon.

“Sherlock? Um… are you okay?” John stood in the doorway, and looked at his flatmate, lying in a heap on the sofa, clutching a bottle they usually reserved for the end of a particularly good case. It certainly wasn’t a bottle you drank straight out of, which was what Sherlock appeared to have been doing.

“Barbarians… Stupid, stupid, barbarians. ”

“Who are?” John asked with mild curiosity.

Sherlock looked up and squinted, like he was only now noticing John’s presence.

“It’s all Mycroft’s fault,” Sherlock slurred.

“Most things are,” John agreed as he edged into the flat. “What did he do?”

“He’s supposed to know things! He’s supposed to…” Sherlock gestured wildly. “What sort of a brother… Ugh…”

Sherlock was starting to look vaguely green. John spared a thought to fetching him a basin, but decided against it for now. Vomit on the carpet wasn’t such a big deal compared to figuring out the reason behind Sherlock’s unusual dance with the bottle.

“Sherlock? Look at me. What did Mycroft do?”

“John,” Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist like a vice. “John, you must believe me. It really wasn’t a scheme. I didn’t know! I know you think I always know everything…”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration. I can name things you don’t know. Manners, for one.” John gave Sherlock a half-smile but he didn’t even seem to hear him.

“It never occurred to me that they were _that_ uncivilised.”

“Who?”

“The barbarians!” Sherlock’s eyes were wild and imploring. John squinted, uncomprehending.

“Who are the barbarians?”

“There should be a law… Stopping people from forming nations unless they demonstrate some basic…”

“Demonstrate what?”

“THAT THEY’RE NOT BARBARIANS!” Sherlock bellowed with unexpected force and then deflated just as quickly, looking young, lost and very, very, drunk.

“Sherlock?” John lowered his voice and infused it with as much authority as he could muster. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Because if you can’t, I think you should go to bed.”

“And will you come with me?” Sherlock leered, even though the distress was still plain on his face. “Husband?”

John covered his eyes with his hand and sighed. As much fun Sherlock could be when he was tipsy, he was much more fun when they were both tipsy. And really – this was several drinks past tipsy.

“Come on, Sherlock. We’ll talk in the morning. Or later tonight. Whenever you wake up. Okay? Up you get.”

He heaved on Sherlock’s arm and managed to raise him to an upright position. This close he could see every line in Sherlock’s dejected frown and John felt the tug of real worry. Sherlock had a flair for drama – especially when it came to his brother – but most of it was bluster. He didn’t usually look this… defeated.

He managed to drag Sherlock to his room, and dumped him on the bed. He pulled off his socks, and pulled a blanket over him, and was about to head to the kitchen for a much needed cup of tea when Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Will you promise? Not to be mad? I hate it when you’re mad.”

John snorted. He could think of a few behaviours Sherlock would surely avoid if John’s annoyance was such a thorn in his side.

But Sherlock persisted, even though the alcohol was clearly about to overpower him. For a recovering addict he had a surprisingly low tolerance. “Promise, John? It really wasn’t my fault.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

That seemed enough for Sherlock, who allowed his eyes to flutter shut and seemed asleep in seconds. John rubbed his temples on his way out to the kitchen, and wondered if he should be calling Mycroft. John _really_ didn’t want to call Mycroft.

Surely everything was fine.

And if it wasn’t fine it could wait. For a bit. Until Sherlock woke up.

If it was something really urgent, Sherlock wouldn’t have drunk himself into a stupor; he would’ve called John, would’ve put on an elaborate disguise and thrown himself into solving the problem.

So John didn’t feel too bad about waiting. Sherlock wasn’t in any particular danger. He was in the flat with John, so he couldn’t be safer, really.

That’s not to say that John didn’t feel uneasy. He had a hard time concentrating on the television. His eyes kept sliding off his book. The Sudoku he only did when Sherlock wasn’t around to mock him seemed completely beyond him.

The clock took bloody ages to inch towards five, when John finally felt justified in taking a stiff drink himself.

He was out like a light long before anything stirred behind Sherlock’s door.

* * *

The next morning John had slept long enough not to be hung over, which left him free to focus on the knot of unease in his chest.

Something was wrong. And he had a feeling that a sober Sherlock would be even less informative than the drunk one.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found when John made his way downstairs. Which was a bit worrying, as Sherlock could hardly be in a fit state for flouncing about London after the previous day.

John's sense of discomfort intensified.

He sent Sherlock a couple of texts but didn't get any reply. He left for work feeling unsettled and nervous. He had a feeling that something was about to happen, and that he wouldn't especially like it when it did.

He wasn’t really that surprised to find a black car waiting for him outside the clinic at the end of the day.

He _was_ surprised to find Mycroft and Sherlock both inside, Sherlock staring at the floor, Mycroft looking annoyed. Even more annoyed than usual. John couldn't actually remember seeing the brothers in quite this close proximity before. It was unsettling.

"Afternoon," John said.

Neither of them returned the greeting.

Mycroft, however, spoke.

"John, you remember your recent... favour the two of you did me?"

"Sure." John liked it when Mycroft’s projects took them abroad. Suicide missions to Eastern Europe aside.

"And the unusual way my brother insisted on luring in the suspect?"

"Mhm." Mycroft was the only person who knew about their short introduction to matrimony and John found it in a bit of a poor taste to discuss the thing with his erstwhile brother-in-law -- not in the least because Mycroft always looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth when he mentioned it.

"Well, I'd like to take this opportunity to tell you that the idea for that particular trap was entirely Sherlock's," said Mycroft while inspecting his nails.

"You didn't come up with a better one," Sherlock spat.

"Well, it wasn't my mission. It was yours," said Mycroft and John's feeling of unease kept growing. "It wasn't my job to deal with the details. It was yours. And this was your solution."

"Well, it did work," John felt duty bound to point out.

"Quite," said Mycroft with one of those half-smiles that suggested that there was more to the joke than anyone other than him understood. John hated that smile.

"Mycroft, get on with it," Sherlock said through thin lips, his eyes still fixed on something John couldn't guess what was outside the window.

"John, there's been a small complication."

"Which is _your_ fault," Sherlock interjected.

"No, it _isn't_ my fault. I know you have a high opinion of what is and isn't under my control, Sherlock, but the finer details of law-making of other nations, broadly speaking, isn't."

John could feel his temper rising.

He was, he felt, getting rather good at tolerating Sherlock. Even Mycroft. After all these years he'd stopped blowing his fuse at the smallest annoyance.

This annoyance, however, was starting to go far beyond his very generous limits.

"Will someone," he grit out, "tell me what the bloody hell is going on?"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock said. "You promised you'd tell him. Because this is your fault."

"Would the two of you grow the fuck up and stop acting like a pair of toddlers?" John could sometimes muster the patience for dealing with people who seemed stuck in a 30 year old relationship rut. This was not one of those times.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Due to a small bureaucratic mishap, John, it appears that you and Sherlock are still married."

John felt himself sag with relief. He'd worried that this was something truly bad. Something awful. Sure, he had been under the impression that they had only been married for about a week, but this was no big deal. Might mean a few extra pages on their tax returns, but hardly anything more sinister.

"Well, you'll get us sorted, right?"

"He was _supposed_ to get us sorted," Sherlock said. "That was the whole point of him. He promised to get this undone. Quickly."

"Yes, well, not everything is within my control, Sherlock. I might have been able to warn you if you'd told me of this scheme before you carried it out, but after the fact..."

"What do you mean?" asked John.

"Well, it turns out," sighed Mycroft, "that the lawmakers of your hosts made a small clerical error."

"When writing up the divorce papers?"

"No, when writing up the marital laws."

John blinked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, in short, there is an unfortunate legal loophole regarding foreign nationals getting married there. It seems there was a small oversight."

"Bloody barbarians..." Sherlock muttered into his clenched fist.

"The laws do allow for foreigners to get married there without any difficulty," Mycroft continued.

"I know," said John. "I happened to get married there myself. Lovely place, excellent polar bear, top-notch snow mobiles. Would recommend it to a friend. Sorry you couldn't be there."

"... The small omission in the law regards the divorce of foreign nationals."

"Yes?"

"There isn't anything in there about it."

"What?" John whipped around to look at Sherlock. Who kept staring at the floor of the car.

"There is no legal way for us to get divorced, John."

John could feel himself get dizzy.

"Surely... I mean... This wasn't Saudi Arabia... We’re talking Europe, here."

"Well, no, I imagine you two trying to get married in Saudi Arabia would have brought a host of problems, other than the one we're currently facing." Mycroft said.

"I mean," said John between gritted teeth, "that nowhere in the civilised world is it impossible to get a divorce."

"Oh, I agree," said Mycroft. "Quite barbaric. But my contacts at their foreign ministry assure me that they'll correct the matter at the earliest opportunity. It turns out that they've been aware of the problem for quite some time. It's all rather embarrassing for them."

"Right. Okay. So it should all be sorted quite..." John trailed off and then glared at Mycroft. "Been aware of it for quite some time? What does that mean?"

"Well, the matter came up a while ago. There's this Russian couple that's been trying to get divorced for two or three years."

"... Years?" John felt faint.

"Well, you could always move up there," Mycroft said musingly. "At least one of you. If one of you had a permanent residence there you'd probably fall within the parameters of the current law regarding residents."

"Probably?"

"Well, as Sherlock rightly points out, these are barbarians masquerading as a civilised nation,” Mycroft said with a curl of his lip. “I'm afraid I couldn't promise anything,” he added, somehow managing to convey a shrug without moving a muscle apart from his eyebrows.

John felt dizzy.

* * *

They didn’t talk about it.

They walked up 221B in silence and didn’t talk about it. John made a point of not being in around dinner, so the idea of sharing a meal wouldn’t come up. He sat alone in a dingy pub and munched on soggy chips and felt sorry for himself.

Honestly – everyone agreed that his first marriage had been a royal fuck-up. Was it too much to ask that his second one would unfold in the manner it was supposed to?

He sighed, downed the rest of his beer, and made his way home. He needed to get his head around this.

Sherlock was hunched over his microscope when John entered the flat, apparently deep in research, but his dressing gown was gently fluttering around his calves. One might suspect that he’d rushed to this position only moments before.

John decided not to dwell on it.

He cleared his throat.

Sherlock didn’t move.

For a moment they stood there in silence, Sherlock looking at his slide, John looking at Sherlock.

When John finally opened his mouth to say everything that had been churning in his head for the last few hours he was a little surprised to hear what came out.

"What am I supposed to tell girls, Sherlock?"

Sherlock, however, showed little surprise at the question. "Hmm?"

"Girls," John gritted out, deciding to stick with this somewhat bizarre line of questioning. "What should I tell them?"

"Oh, whatever you want," Sherlock said, still not looking up. "They usually believe whatever tripe you feed them."

"I mean," John said with as much patience as he could muster, "about us."

"Why on earth do you need to tell them anything at all about us?"

Dozens of voices flared up in John's memory, the ghosts of girlfriends past, each telling him that he never seemed to shut up about the great Sherlock Holmes.

John rubbed his temple, stared at his flatmate who still refused to meet his eyes and decided to let the matter drop. For now.

* * *

The following morning John felt like he was acting in a boring, hyper-realistic indie film as he and Sherlock sat in silence at the kitchen table, rigidly going through the motions of a shared meal without speaking.

So John tried again to broach the subject he’d been dwelling on all night. Because he needed to wrap his head around it somehow.

"Should we tell people?"

"What?" Sherlock still seemed to be avoiding eye contact.

"That we're married, apparently."

Sherlock snorted.

"You didn't tell them when it happened. Why should we now?"

"Well, no, I didn’t,” John said slowly in his _imagine-Sherlock-is-five-years-old_ voice. “Because then it didn't matter. Because I thought it was over before we even reached British soil."

Sherlock had stopped pretending to be confused and now looked honestly confused. "You want to tell people because we… _failed_ to get divorced?"

"Shouldn't we? What if... I don’t know.” John gestured wildly with his toast. “What if I get hit by a bus tomorrow and the Times publish an obituary where it says that I'm survived by my husband, Sherlock Holmes? That would be a bit of a shock for Harry. And Mrs. Hudson would never forgive you for not telling her." He trailed off, because the thought of Sherlock alone in 221B, mourning for this hypothetically dead John, while avoiding Mrs. Hudson, brought back memories he rather avoided revisiting.

"I rather think," Sherlock muttered, "that you're overestimating your place in society if you're worried about your Times obituary, John.”

"Well, whatever - if _you_ stepped in front of a bus, then."

Sherlock looked up at him, his face unreadable.

"Well, then you'd have bigger problems, wouldn't you?"

John, yet again, gave up. He was late for work anyway.

* * *

"Don't we need a pre-nup?"

John felt rather proud of himself for asking this as he and Sherlock did the dishes after dinner. It was a sign that he was moving on from the emotional aspect of his marriage and to the practical. He wasn’t panicking about anything – he was tackling this sensibly.

"A what?" Sherlock was sporting an unusually forlorn face as he looked up at John.

"A pre-nup. To do with money and such."

Sherlock slammed a glass into the water-filled sink with unnecessary force, making suds fly everywhere.

"Well, it's a bit late now, isn't it?"

"A post-nup, then,” John clarified. “Isn't your brother supposed to be clever about these things? I’m sure he could rig something up. You're much better off than I am. What if we fall out before the whole mess can be cleaned up and I decide to use the divorce proceedings to fleece you to the bone?"

Sherlock had the nerve to seem amused.

"Are you planning on demanding spousal support?"

"If you piss me off enough, I might."

"I'll take that into consideration," Sherlock said and went to work on the filthy frying pan.

Neither pre- nor post-nup was ever brought up again.

* * *

It had now been a whole day of knowing that he was married to Sherlock Holmes and John had no idea why he felt so unsettled. Why it bothered him more to learn that he was married to Sherlock than the actual wedding ever had.

But it did.

Looking around the living room in 221B, nothing seemed to have changed. John was in his chair, Sherlock in his. There was fire in the grate and a whiskey in his glass. And yet…

"Sherlock?"

"Mhm?" Sherlock was pouring over some journal he’d picked up from a used bookseller, which he and claimed that held fascinating data on beekeeping in the nineteenth century. Clearly, bees that had been dead for a hundred and fifty years held more interest than John did.

"It doesn't bother you?"

"What?" Sherlock scribbled down a no-doubt-thrilling apiary fact.

"You know what."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's not on my top ten list of things to worry about, no."

"What _is_ on your top ten list of things to worry about?"

Sherlock didn’t answer. Probably, if he had, the answer would’ve concerned bees somehow.

John decided to try another tactic.

"I'm not gay."

"I know." Sherlock still didn’t seem to find the conversation more interesting than the bees. It was starting to get on John’s nerves.

Christ, they’d be in marriage counselling for communication problems before the month was out. John ran a hand through his hair and valiantly struggled on.

"It's only...People might think I am. If they find out that...You know."

"That?" Sherlock still had his eyes firmly on the bees.

"Well, that I've been married to a man. They'll _assume_ things, Sherlock. About us. About what we've been doing."

"Nonsense,” Sherlock said. “They might think we've just got married for tax reasons."

John fought an urge to kick him.

"People get _divorced_ for tax reasons, Sherlock. They don't get married because of them."

"Well, some sort of benefits then.” Sherlock waved a hand. “Medical decision making. Inheritance. Whatever."

"I'm pretty sure there are ways other than marriage to deal with those," John ground out. His mind helpfully offered a picture of him trying to explain to Sally Donovan that he was married to Sherlock Holmes for inheritance reasons.

"What does it matter, John?" John jerked in his chair as Sherlock threw down his precious notebook. "What people _might_ think if they _happened_ to find out?"

"It matters," said John, perversely glad that Sherlock finally seemed to be taking an interest, "because we all have an image. We are all our own creations, and don't tell me that you, of all people, aren't aware of it, Mr. One-liner. Don't tell me that you are ignorant about how we portray ourselves. I live with you, remember. I know all about your hair products, how much time you take getting dressed, how much you spend on your look. I've seen you put on masks for all sorts of occasions, Sherlock. You know that these things matter. The message you choose to send out about yourself. It matters."

John wasn't sure when he'd started yelling. He wasn't even sure when he'd stood up from his chair. And he wasn't sure when Sherlock had gone pale.

So John did the only thing he could think of and stormed from the room, grabbing his coat on the way out. He needed a drink.


	2. The honeymoon period

Drinking alone, John thought, was becoming a rather distressing habit in the hours since he'd learned of his ongoing marriage to Sherlock.

In fact, he had rarely felt more alone than he had in the two days since he'd learned that he'd been assigned a companion until death (or the barbarian lawmakers - whichever came first) did them apart.

The flat was dark when he stumbled in and he staggered into the kitchen and sat down. He didn't know if Sherlock had gone out or was simply hiding in his bedroom. It seemed unlikely that he was asleep.

John had been trying to think, at the pub, but found himself unable to focus in the noise and the crowd. There was something niggling him about the situation that he couldn't quite get his head around. He felt like it was just out of reach - almost there - if only he managed to stop being this emotional about the whole thing.

His eyes slowly got used to the darkness in the flat and as he stared into the shadowy living room he realised that someone was staring back.

John jerked upright in his chair and scrambled for a gun that wasn't there before he realised that Sherlock was slumped on the sofa and was silently watching John.

“Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack. If I'd been armed...”

“I knew you weren't,” said Sherlock quietly.

John squinted in the darkness.

For a moment they were silent together. Not like when they were reading or watching TV or doing housework - not silently co-existing, but silently watching each other.

“John, I probably should've said... I should've said sometime today that I'm sorry.” Sherlock broke eye-contact at the words. Words he normally used so sparingly but offered now.

And then it slotted into place. The thing that had been niggling at John all evening.

He'd _known_ all along that Sherlock was sorry. Sherlock had started apologising for this before John knew what had (or rather, hadn't) happened. That wasn't new.

But there was this other thing that Sherlock had been saying in his drunk ravings. That John couldn't quite get to add up.

“Sherlock? Yesterday? You said...”

“I said I was sorry. And I am.”

"I know,” said John and frowned. “But you…you said some other stuff as well.”

 He saw Sherlock's face close off. His featured hardly moved, but still - it was like someone had drawn the curtains. “I was drunk. Obviously you could see that there wasn't much sense in what I...”

 “You seemed to think that I’d assume you’d somehow…” John fumbled for words. “That you’d somehow planned this? Despite knowing what would happen?”

 Sherlock didn’t say anything and John couldn’t read anything off his face.

 “Why would you want to get married to me if you knew we wouldn’t be able to divorce?”

 “I didn’t know,” Sherlock said quickly. “I really didn’t.”

 “Right,” said John.

 The alcohol had made his mind sluggish and difficult to manage – and yet the drunkenness seemed to open up some possibilities that hadn’t been there before. He had a feeling Sherlock knew where this conversation was headed, but he certainly didn’t.

 “But… What could I possibly suspect you of? Why might I think that?”

 Sherlock didn’t move for a bit. Then he stood, turning his face away, and said, “Yes. Why would you?” in a flat voice – and then he left.

 As John sat there, alone, and listened to Sherlock’s door close, he felt like he had missed something important. And he had no idea what.

 

* * *

 

John wasn’t all that hungover the next day. He hadn’t been all that drunk. But he was still consumed with a vague but unmistakable feeling of guilt, the sort he usually only experienced after an epic bender, when he didn’t quite remember what he’d done, but guessed he had some pretty serious apologising to do.

John was used to not understanding things.

He wasn’t unusually dim, but living with Sherlock Holmes meant that you tended to be three steps behind.

However, living with Sherlock Holmes also meant that John had access to someone who could help him connect the dots when he was out of his depth.

This time, John knew, Sherlock would not offer that particular service.

He should, John reasoned, treat this like a case. Like _he_ was both the consulting detective and the client. He was sure he had all the evidence – it was just a matter of lining it all up and connecting the aforementioned dots.

Right?

Only… The dots didn’t make any sense. Why would Sherlock worry that John would suspect him of purposefully trapping John in a marriage they couldn’t get out of?

Granted, Sherlock hadn’t been the most accepting of John’s girlfriends through the years.

And he certainly tended to be a bit possessive. Unreasonable, some might say (and had said) about his claims on John’s time and attention.

Could that be the reason Sherlock feared that John might think this mess had happened on purpose? Did he think that John would suspect him of trapping him in a marriage ( _marriage_!) just to keep the status quo in Baker Street?

…He might, John concluded. 

It had taken John a long while to realise how vulnerable his friend really was, but he knew that Sherlock was afraid of many things. He was afraid of being alone, of being abandoned. Afraid of people suspecting that he actually had feelings. Afraid of being vulnerable.

It made sense that Sherlock’s deepest fear was John thinking the worst of him.

But John would never suspect Sherlock of tricking him into binding agreements just for his own satisfaction. And he felt a bit sick to think that Sherlock would think it of him.

He had to make this right.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m sorry,” John said at the breakfast table the next morning. 

“Why?” asked Sherlock, not even pretending to ask what John was referring to. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well,” said John. “No. But neither did you.”

“I didn’t?” Sherlock asked and John could feel his heart clench a little bit at the tone of voice. The surprise.

“No, you didn’t. And I’m sorry I…I’m sorry about yesterday, okay? We’ll just wait this out. It’s not as if either of one is in a relationship right now – never mind one that is going to end with a wedding. I’m sure Mycroft will have figured this all out by the time it will ever matter. And until then, we can just pretend it didn’t happen, okay?”

Sherlock seemed frozen in place for a bit.

And then he nodded slowly. “Right. Pretend it didn’t happen.”

John took a generous bite of toast and complimented himself on a job well done.

 

* * *

 

Only it didn’t quite work.

John thought back to the case, all those months before. The case that got them into this mess. When Sherlock suggested that they’d get married and John had laughed and gone along with it, no questions asked--that sort of thing suggested blind trust. It suggested complete ease in a relationship between two blokes. It suggested that nothing could rattle them.

Now they constantly tiptoed around each other. 

John found himself running most things he wanted to say through some inner censor before saying it at all. There were fewer jokes, fewer nights in, fewer meals out. Everything felt a bit stilted, awkward, strange. Almost like it had back when Sherlock had returned from dead.

Only this wasn’t anything like that. That had been so much worse. That had been broken trust and PTSD and Mary and all sorts of mess. Now – now everything was _fine_. Sure, there was this piece of paper between them, but that didn’t change anything. Shouldn’t change anything.

But it did.

Somehow, it did. And it was driving John mad. The safe haven that was 221B felt claustrophobic, and he found himself avoiding going home, choosing instead to linger over paperwork at the clinic or stopping at Mrs. Hudson’s before braving the stairs to the flat.

Which was why John wasn’t even with Sherlock when he took the case that went to hell.

He wasn’t there, and his gun wasn’t there, when some great big brute flung Sherlock, as though he was nothing more than a rag-doll, through a window and down two stories into a skip.

The bastard was lucky that Lestrade had him locked up before John got to him.

Not that John was all that concerned about getting to him at first. He was more interested in getting to find Sherlock in the A&E. And he didn’t even hesitate when telling the nurse that he was there to see Sherlock Holmes, his husband. The words came quite easily and unbidden. He brandished his ID at her, saw her look Sherlock up in the General Register to confirm their relationship, and then he was whisked off to see his partner.

But when he was there, sitting next to Sherlock's bed, John didn't know what to do.

Well, yes, he did. He knew his way around a hospital; as a doctor, a family member and a patient. So he read Sherlock's file, he fiddled with the bed-settings, he sent texts to Mycroft and Lestrade updating them on the situation (“upsetting but not dire”). And then - then he waited. He sat there and waited next to the man he'd just declared his husband.

Of course he told them that Sherlock was his husband. In this instance it was both a useful and relevant fact, and no need to feel shy around it. It was practical – and John Watson prided himself on being a practical-minded man.

Sherlock’s breath was slow and unlaboured. He wasn't unconscious - not properly. Just asleep. And drugged. He had broken a few ribs, his left arm and had a huge gash in his thigh, but his head was remarkably unscathed. (John couldn't help seeing him fly off the roof of St. Barts every time he closed his eyes, but he hadn't done years of therapy for nothing and was able to dismiss the phantom. Until he next closed his eyes, that was).

John stared at Sherlock's hand where it rested on the white sheet.

John had never been much of the hand-holding type. But he'd held the hands of his parents as they died. First his mum and later his dad.

He could remember holding his mum's hand on a number of occasions. The first day at school, in the crowds downtown before Christmas, when walking on the beach during some holiday. But he could  never remember holding his dad's hand. But there - at the end - he had. When his dad seemed beyond both hearing and seeing and was slowly slipping away, John had held his hand. Just to reassure them both that he wasn't facing the journey ahead alone.

That was probably why he was staring at Sherlock's hand right now. Because he had some Pavlovian response to hospital beds and handholding, John thought to himself.

Sherlock wasn't slipping anywhere. He was fine. He would be fine. He didn't need any particular comfort beyond the undoubtedly healthy buzz the drugs were giving him.

But still. Still - John couldn't stop looking at those long fingers, usually engaged with something or another, now slack and idle. The palm open, like it was waiting to be filled.

Maybe - John thought - maybe this urge had also something to do with the whole "husband" thing. He felt like he'd scammed his way to this hospital bed and he needed to keep up his cover so that no one would suspect him of trickery and look too closely into things.

Only, in this case they could poke as much as they liked and would find everything as perfectly legal and proper as anyone might wish. It was of no matter to them if John and Sherlock were the type of couple that didn't hold hands.

Besides.

He couldn't just take Sherlock's hand.

He couldn't take liberties with Sherlock's person, his body, his personal space. Sherlock was one of those people who had a huge fucking personal space. He radiated danger and contempt. People usually had the good sense not to come too close. Holding his hand when he was unable to stop it from happening was...unthinkable.

And yet...John stared at the hand. Feeling like a failure both for wanting to take it, and for not taking it.

He picked up his phone and went for the Sudoku app and decided to wait it out. Sherlock should wake up soon and then they'd go back to Baker Street.

 

* * *

 

With injury came closeness. Intimacy.

Nothing they hadn’t done before, but as soon as Sherlock was discharged from the hospital it became clear that the invisible force-field of Sherlock’s personal space needed to come down. John needed to support him up the stairs. He needed help getting on his shirt. He sometimes needed support just moving around the flat.

And John had done these things before – or things similar to them. But he’d never really noticed it before. Not like this. And he felt sure that Sherlock was noticing it as well. He could see a faint blush on his cheeks when John helped him tape his cast before showering. He could feel him hold his breath as John supported him.

John and Sherlock had touched thousands of times. They’d probably had millions of casual touches between them. Hand on the shoulder, bumping into each other in the kitchen, tackling each other to the ground during chases. And John had never given any of them second thought.

Now, however, every touch seemed charged with something more. John found himself dwelling not only on those, but also on previous touches.

Like their kiss, inside that glacial cave in the middle of nowhere.

John hadn’t thought about it much before now. Not at all, really. But now he found himself wondering about it. How long had it been? Short – he was sure of that. Had any parts of them touched other than their lips? He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t sure if either of them reached out a hand to the other one’s face. Or if the kiss had happened in a half-way hug. Had there maybe been a tentative hand on his waist? He wasn’t sure.  When he thought back to the moment all he could remember was their shared mirth, the twinkle in Sherlock’s eye over how outrageous they were, how audacious.

But he couldn’t accurately recall the feel of Sherlock’s lips on his.

And why _was_ he trying to recall that at all?

 

* * *

 

The thing about tea is that it shouldn’t matter who makes it. It’s just hot water poured over some dried leaves and allowed to steep for a set amount of minutes. You shouldn’t be able to mess it up.

John was not good at making tea. If he stood in the kitchen and watched the pot his patience would usually give out too soon and the tea tasted like hot water with a hint of tea. If he allowed himself to wander out to the living room to kill the time before pouring the tea into cups – well, then he usually got distracted and ended up with over-steeped tea, strong enough that you needed shovel it into your mouth with a spoon.

It had taken Sherlock some time to realise that John was simply useless at this relatively simple task. After several lectures about how he shouldn’t be able to mess up tea-making, followed by John still messing it up, John had been forbidden to make the tea.

After Sherlock jumped from St. Bart’s roof John had switched to coffee.

After Mary – after John moved back to 221B – he started drinking Sherlock’s tea again. Now, when Sherlock was injured, he felt irritable and frustrated whenever the urge for a cuppa came over him. Sure, Mrs. Hudson was more than willing to fuss over them, but it wasn’t the same. She brought up the tea when _she_ wanted tea, not when they wanted tea.

 John was sat in his chair, thinking about this, feeling inadequate for not being able to do something millions of people all around the world were probably doing right this minute. Granted – most of them were probably making horrible tea – but still. They were still making it. And not feeling inferior and miserable for not being able to do it properly.

He knew that maybe if he used a timer this might work, but Sherlock never used a timer; people _shouldn’t_ need to use a timer to figure out how long four minutes took…

“Oh, honestly. I can see you brooding from here.”

John valiantly resisted the urge to throw his book at Sherlock’s head.

“I’m sorry, your highness, but I kind of need to be close to you if I’m supposed to be at your beck and call.”

"I wasn’t complaining about you being close, I was complaining about the brooding," said Sherlock, who was draped over the sofa, pillows piled under him at strategic places to make the position as compfortable as possible. "I’ll just make the tea.”

“Don’t be stupid, you can’t make the tea.”

“Sure I can. I have someone who I understand is at my beck and call.” Sherlock smiled. “I’ll remote control you.”

John blinked.

“You’ll…what?”

“It’s easy. Just start by getting up.”

John stared at him for a moment, trying to judge if he was being serious. Then he slowly rose from his chair.

“Excellent. Now walk into the kitchen.”

John raised his eyebrows, waiting for more, but it didn’t come. Clearly Sherlock was going for baby-steps in this. Right. He stalked off into the kitchen.

“Good," Sherlock's lips curled into a soft smile. "Now, fill the kettle and start it.”

And so it went. Step for step. Direction, compliment, another direction. Keeping eye contact for almost the entire time. And John didn’t do anything different from what he normally would do, he thought, but still, somehow, he ended up with a pot of tea that tasted like Sherlock had made it.

And somehow that felt more intimate than even the most salacious sponge bath.

John figured he was probably going insane.


	3. Happily Ever After

"John. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Yeah, hi, Mycroft, it’s John.”

The sigh on the other end was audible.

“Yes, we rather established that, didn’t we?”

“Right. Well." John clenched his hand tight and soldiered on. "The thing is. I just wanted to ask, you know. If there was any news. About. You know.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Well, about the…the divorce.”

“In a hurry, are we?" Mycroft sounded distracted and not a bit interested. "Surely a few months don’t make much of a difference at this point.”

“Well.” John was regretting this phone call already. He’d actually started regretting as soon as he’d punched in Mycroft’s number, but now he just needed to muddle through. “Well, you deal with…census data and such. Surely we all just want….we want official data to reflect reality.”

There was a silence on the phone, lasting several seconds, no doubt intended to allow John to ponder the foolishness of his entire existence.

“Yes, I’ll make sure to mention this aspect of the matter in my next email to the foreign minister, but as of now there is no news. I will let you know when there is.”

And then the call was cut off.

Stupid Mycroft.

Stupid phones.

Stupid marriage.

Of course John wanted to know. He needed to know how this stood. He needed to get his friendship with Sherlock back on track. He felt like this travesty of a marriage was keeping him from focusing on the future, like he was stuck. And pretending it wasn’t there wasn’t proving as easy as it should be.

Bloody hell, If Sherlock managed to get himself killed before the dissolution of the marriage John would become a real, honest to god widower.

The thought was too much to bear.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock's injuries were healing. Sherlock didn’t need as much help.

This should’ve been an improvement.

It wasn’t.

The strange, hyper-awareness of his proximity of his convalescence hadn’t been good. It had brought certain awkwardness.

Now that Sherlock was independent again, the proximity was gone but the awkwardness was not. If anything, it was worse, because now John was thinking about being close to Sherlock rather than having to endure being close to him.

John, never much of a tech wizard, decided it was time to download Tinder to his phone.

 

* * *

 

“Did you know that three of the last five women you’ve swiped on Tinder are married – or do you just not care?”

They were sitting in their chairs, like so many times before, when Sherlock spoke. John was deeply immersed in his novel and hadn’t been thinking about phones, women or sex so he needed a moment to make sense of the sentence.

“I’ve told you not to snoop on my phone.”

“I’m interested. Is it that you don’t care or don’t know?”

“It’s for sex, Sherlock,” John ground out. “Not to find the love of my life. If they are cheating on their husbands that’s their problem – not mine.”

“No,” Sherlock said slowly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe their vows are not your problem.”

And he had the nerve to stop there. And not say anything more. Just hinting at the fact that John was also married. Alleging, without so many words, that John was cheating. Cheating! On him, no less.

“Yes, well, as we know marriage doesn’t have to mean very much, does it,” John asked with a tight smile.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “God, John, have we finally managed to make a cynic of you? I almost feel bad.”

“Just…just stay out of my phone, okay?”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

And John didn’t go on any Tinder dates.

 

* * *

 

 These feelings – obsessions – whatever – were getting completely out of hand. John figured he really needed some professional help in getting his head around his absurd matrimonial situation. So he ordered an appointment with Ella.

He was getting good at therapy. He held nothing back but rather told her, in an organized manner, everything about the touching and the tea making and the Tinder-fiasco and how being not-divorced from Sherlock was somehow very different from being not-married to him.

And Ella made notes and asked questions and made silly, stupid assumptions about John and Sherlock that people had been making about them for years and…and then she suggested looking at gay porn.

Gay porn!

Ella was supposed to be a member of the educated classes.

She was supposed to uphold the values represented in The Guardian, to believe in the power of meditation and women’s rights and to march against nuclear weapons. That was the sort of person she was supposed to be. And that sort of people – that sort of people didn’t support pornography in any way, shape or form.

That sort of people lobbied against pornography, argued about how it was degrading for everyone involved in making it and filled the heads of the consumers with wrong and dangerous ideas about sex.

That sort of people was not supposed to suggest rubbing one out over a couple of naked chaps going at it in front of a camera!

Honestly, Ella probably had all her suggestions about matters like this from reading Cosmopolitan and gossiping with her friends, rather from her years in higher education. Her professional expertise was with PTSD – it was John’s mistake to think she could assist him in getting rid of the mental block he had about this marriage thing.

He left her office with a sad shake of his head.

 

* * *

 

But of course he thought about it.

How could he not once she'd made the suggestion?

And he hated that he was thinking about it, he was thinking about watching naked men because of his conflicted emotions towards the man he lived with, and simultaneous thoughts about Sherlock and nakedness didn’t lead to anything good.

Besides – he couldn’t look at it. How could he? Sherlock would _know_. He would know within seconds and that would give him all sorts of wrong ideas and that would be Not Good. So John wasn’t in any position to look at the gay porn. Even if he’d wanted to. Which he didn’t.

To top it off Sherlock was in a right mood, breaking cutlery, torturing his violin and sleeping more than was healthy.

Maybe _he_ was the one who needed a good, healthy dose of gay porn to cheer him up.

John could feel his cheeks colour at the thought.

He didn’t even know if Sherlock looked at porn. Theirs had never been that kind of friendship, no naughty jokes or laddish comments. And if Sherlock looked at porn John didn’t know what sort of porn it was.

He probably just did his thing in the shower, not thinking about anything in particular. His body was, after all, just transport.

On the other hand, Sherlock had a tendency to be surprisingly sensual, buying loose leaf tea, enjoying the silky feel of a good dressing gown and listening to music while he napped. So he might take long, leisurely wanking sessions that….

Christ.

Thanks, Ella.

Now John was picturing Sherlock wanking, which was probably the least helpful outcome of anything.

But still, it _was_ kind of absurd that he didn’t even know what sort of porn his best friend, his flat-mate and his husband preferred. He didn’t mean in specifics, just in general, really.

And it wasn’t a conscious decision, John thought, when he started cooking a really nice meal for the two of them. He wasn’t laying the ground for some serious conversation, a proper heart-to-heart. But he had to admit when finished his vegetable curry and found himself making some fancy rice with more ingredients than one to go with it that it was turning out like that. He even had some dough rising in the sink, all prepared to become naans.

Home-made naans? Who even did that?

Not John Watson, it turned out. The dough didn’t rise and then the Youtube videos about how to actually make the naan proved beyond him, but they had some frozen ones that turned out okay when he put them in the toaster.

Sherlock looked wary when he inched into the living room.

“Are you having someone over?”

“No, it’s just us,” John started to say at the same time Sherlock continued: “Because I can leave, I’ll just…”

“No,” John felt vaguely horrified. "No, it's... It's just for us. I thought, you know, with the weather being crap and all that we could use a nice, hot meal. Here. Without having to leave the flat. That's all."

"Right." Sherlock didn't say anything else, but his scepticism was obvious.

"What...Why are you upset about this?"

"I'm not upset," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm just..." He trailed off. "I'm just glad," he said at last. "Should I get some wine?"

He got the wine and John put his rice-masterpiece on the table along with the curry and it was lovely. Civilised.

And once they were sat at the table, John could really tell how long it had been since they'd done anything this deliberately intimate.

Sherlock smiled at him as he raised his glass. "To the cook."

"Cheers."

They ate in silence, and John drank wine and looked at the person who could without a doubt be called the man in his life. His partner, his flat-mate, his best friend, his husband. The subject of all his writings and the would-be focus of most of the stories he'd tell when old age had managed to wipe most of his memories away. After weeks of unease John could almost feel the tension leave the room with every bite of food, every sip of wine.

Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

"What are you thinking about?"

John smirked. "Can't you tell?"

"I could guess," Sherlock said with an amused glint in his eye,"but it might seem a little vain."

John burst into giggles and Sherlock was quick to follow him.

"Yeah, okay, you twat, I was thinking about you. You're a worthy subject."

"Am I now?" Sherlock seemed pleased by that. He would.

"You are." John took a fortifying swig of wine. "And I was actually thinking today about how little I know about you."

"Nonsense, you know more than most."

"Yeah, but most people don't know shit," said John. "Except maybe that you really can pull off a deerstalker, which is, I grant you, something of a superpower in this day and age."

"You think I can pull it off?” Sherlock preened. “I've never been quite sure."

"As if,” John snorted. “You'd probably have designed a computer virus to destroy all digital evidence of the hat if you hadn't known that you could."

"One of your most endearing qualities, John, is your impressive opinion of my abilities."

John smiled refilled their glasses.

This was nice. Fun. Cosy. So he went on.

"Yeah, okay, I know more about you than the fact that you look good in a deerstalker, but..."

"Look good?” Sherlock interrupted. “You just said that I could pull it off, that I look good in it is clearly a step up from that."

"Shut up." John could feel himself blushing.

This wasn't flirting, was it?

It felt disturbingly like flirting.

But he was here now. He'd just get his information and then retreat. There was no need for Sherlock or anyone to read too much into it.

"As I was saying," John said with an exaggerated sigh, "I know some things, but not much. For example, I was thinking...since I met you, you've never gone out with anyone."

"Janine?"

"She doesn't count and you know it, idiot."

"Of course she did. We had a real…" Sherlock fumbled for the right word. “Connection.”

"No, you didn't… Did you?”

“No, we didn’t,” Sherlock admitted and John didn’t quite know why he breathed a sigh of relief.

“But hasn’t there been…anyone?” John suspected he was messing this up, but asking Sherlock straight out seemed impossible.

“Anyone what? Anyone I’ve slept with? Anyone I’ve wanted to sleep with? Anyone I’ve…loved?” Sherlock, however, didn’t seem to share John’s qualms.

John thought he must be a bit tipsy – he couldn’t imagine a sober Sherlock talking about loving someone.

“Any of the above?” John said as he stood up and started gathering plates off the table. He carried the plates towards the sink, and when he turned around to fetch the rest he was faced with his best friend, who was looming right in front of him.

John was cornered against the kitchen counter and found himself backing away from Sherlock as much as he could. It wasn't much.

“Yes,” Sherlock said in a low, rumbling voice. John imagined he could feel the heat radiating off his body, he could certainly smell his cologne. He held his breath as Sherlock said in a low voice: “Some of the above.”

“Right. Okay. Um. That’s…good.”

Sherlock's leg was much better. The cast on his arm had come off. He no longer needed intimate assistance. They hadn't stood this close for days. 

“What are you doing, John?” Sherlock was still standing close to him, crowding him, towering over him and John didn’t know where to look. He felt dizzy.

“I…” He licked his lips. “I was just…making conversation. I think?”

Eye contact was completely beyond him. But looking away seemed like such a failure that his gaze settled instead on Sherlock’s lips. That was a nice compromise, wasn’t it? His lips. They seemed nice, those lips. Plump. Just, a really solid pair of lips. Nothing to complain about there. John could just keep his eyes on those and he’d get out of this situation.

His mind raced unbidden to that half-forgotten kiss in the ice-cave.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Odd topic, for a conversation, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock asked and as he spoke, John could see his teeth and a hint of a pink tongue.

“Well, a little…” John coughed, “a little intimate, perhaps, but we are, I’m given to understand, married. Hardly out of bounds for a couple of married people, is it?”

The lips smiled.

“No, perhaps not. Thera are, however, plenty of things that are within bounds for married people that we don’t usually do. Such as this.”

And John could see it coming a mile away. The words gave him fair warning, the fingers that slowly inched under his button-up, the lips that carefully moved closer, all giving John all the time in the world to move away.

And he could list all the thoughts that came up in his head. About how this could ruin them, could ruin their friendship, how John had never done anything with a man before and might mess this up and how Sherlock was probably horrible relationship material and….

… and yet he didn’t move away.

He just stood there, waiting for it to happen. His lips might have parted. His head might even have tilted upwards a smidge.

And when they finally touched, when their lips finally met, there, in their own kitchen, far away from any bearded men and long-dead polar bears – then John felt sure that they had never kissed before. Because surely – surely – this was no repetition, because John had never felt anything like this from a single kiss. Every point of contact between them was electrified, his hands frantically grabbed at Sherlock, with one going for his neck and the other one sliding around his back.

And he could feel, every second, that Sherlock was a man, and somehow it didn’t matter. His stubble, his lean, hard body, his towering height – it absolutely didn’t hurt. This was the best kiss John had ever tried, not despite it being with a man but because it was with Sherlock.

And it was very quickly becoming something rather more than a kiss.

A kiss was something that involved mouths. This, this was morphing into something else. John felt greedy, dizzy with want and curiosity and hunger. He wanted everything. Most of all he wanted to touch Sherlock’s skin. He wanted to see where else this electricity would spark between them.

He pulled back from the kiss, and Sherlock responded by drifting down to his neck, kissing, licking and biting until John’s knees threatened to give out - and John wasn't even the one recovering from devastating injuries.

“Sherlock? Bed. We…we need a bed.” 

His voice sounded hoarse and distant. He could feel Sherlock nodding against his skin and yet they didn’t move. John’s hands kept trailing up and down Sherlock’s back, wandering up into his hair and then hesitating over the waistband of his trousers before moving back up. 

“You can touch,” Sherlock rumbled into John’s ear, “anything you like,” and John could hear himself make an embarrassing half grunt, half moan, as he allowed his hands finally to travel lower, down to Sherlock's arse. Sherlock moaned and whispered into John's ear: “What can I touch?”

“Anything,” John gasped, “please, everything.”

It was intense – maybe more intense than any sexual encounter John could remember having – but although Sherlock’s eyes were burning, there was also joy on his face. Simple happiness, that made John’s heart clench with the knowledge that this was real, this was a new aspect of them that fitted perfectly with all the rest. John gave a small laugh and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, and clenched his fingers in his shirt.

“Then,” Sherlock said, “I think you’re right that we need a bed.“

They stumbled together into Sherlock’s bedroom, and standing within Sherlock’s most private place in the world John felt almost overwhelmed with the potential of the moment.

They stared at each other for a few breaths, and then Sherlock reached out a hand. He slipped John’s button-up off his shoulders, and John allowed it to fall to the floor. He stepped closer to Sherlock and moved to unbutton his shirt.

They didn’t speak, they didn’t kiss, they just looked at each other in silence, listened to each other breathing and slowly unbuttoned those shirts. There was a sense of unreality about it all - his mind struggled to place Sherlock in a completely new category of reality in his head - but is still didn't feel wrong or unnatural. Just new and exciting.

John closed his eyes when he slipped his hand under Sherlock’s open shirt. All that warm skin made him feel dizzy. He could feel himself involuntarily jerk when Sherlock’s big hand mimicked the motion, and an electric current ran through him. His breath was laboured and he was almost painfully aroused. He wanted to try everything, but his body was telling him that “everything” had better be achieved quickly, because time was running out.

“Can I…” he asked, as his fingers trailed towards Sherlock’s belt.

“Anything,” Sherlock said, as he shrugged off his shirt.

John made quick work of the belt, the button, the flies. And he didn’t even hesitate, before tugging Sherlock’s trousers down, John-not-gay-Watson couldn’t wait to get his hands, lips, mouth on what was underneath.

He carefully cupped Sherlock’s hardness, allowed himself to feel his heat and his hardness through the thin cotton of the underwear.

John kept waiting for the moment when he’d start freaking out – but it didn’t come. He just wanted more of everything. He wanted to see what kinds of noises he could make his best friend make. He wanted to learn _everything._

Sherlock’s eyes had closed, but when John sank to his knees, they jerked right open.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” John warned him, as he nuzzled Sherlock’s groin with his cheek.

“I could always remote control you,” Sherlock said with a small grin. He looked devastatingly beautiful in the light from the street, hair in disarray, a hint of blush on his cheeks.

John smiled.

“Maybe next time. I don’t think I could stand to go through too many steps at this point.” He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and tugged them down.

John had never spent much time thinking about cocks. He didn’t know what was considered normal, what was considered desirable. He’d never got around to looking at that gay porn, after all.

It was, however, his unbiased opinion that Sherlock’s cock was magnificent. Perfect. Absolutely mouth-watering.

Daunting as hell as well – but John Watson didn’t think of himself as someone who backed down from a challenge, so he opened his mouth and tasted Sherlock. He licked carefully, getting a feel for him, getting to know his taste and texture. The sounds from Sherlock didn’t disappoint. He positively whimpered and his knees seemed to wobble slightly.

And then John smiled up at him and took the whole thing in his mouth.

It felt strange – body parts didn’t belong in people’s mouths. It went against something primal – but it also felt absurdly right. John struggled to make everything fit, to keep moving and keep sucking and not making a total fool of himself by choking. He allowed one of his hands to slip behind Sherlock and he grabbed his arse. He could feel Sherlock’s muscles straining, like he was fighting the urge to thrust – to fuck John’s mouth – and that was even hotter than all the rest.

“I… I don’t think you’re the only one who wouldn’t have had patience for long directions,” Sherlock panted above him.

John’s right hand slipped between Sherlock’s legs and took a light hold of Sherlock’s bollocks as he sucked all the harder.

A hand in his hair was all the warning he got – he could feel a sudden increase of slickness in his mouth before he managed to pull off and jerk Sherlock through what looked like a fairly spectacular orgasm.

John was unsure where to look – at Sherlock’s face or at the white strands that were coating his hand, it was equally mesmerising. Sherlock's knees gave out and he slid down the wall to the floor, next to John. The more part of John's mind that was prone to fussing suggested that this had probably been a bit much for someone in Sherlock's current medical state - but his very pleased primal brain pointed out that it was very unlikely that any lasting damage had been done and surely this had been worth a little discomfort. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and leaned in for a long, lazy kiss.

“I think,” sighed Sherlock with a small huff of a laugh, “that this might have been a new record in processing a sexual identity crisis. Excellent work.”

“Mhm. Well. I did have excellent coaching throughout.”

His hand drifted towards his trousers, but Sherlock was quicker. He deftly unfastened them and then that huge, nimble hand that John had so often thought about was easing its way into his underwear. John gasped loudly as Sherlock grabbed him and used the opportunity to shift them around, so that John’s back was flush against Sherlock’s chest.

John blindly fumbled behind him, to reach Sherlock’s neck or his face – but hesitated as his hand was still covered with come. Sherlock’s left hand was quick, though, in grabbing John’s wrist and lifting his hand up towards Sherlock’s face. And while Sherlock gave John the best hand job he had ever imagined – his lips found John’s hand and licked it clean, finger by finger.

John didn’t know where to look or what to feel. The slow suction, the leisurely licking threatened to drive him mad, while the sensations below the belt were nothing like a simple hand job had a right to conjure.

He came while Sherlock was licking his third finger. He could taste blood as he came, because if he hadn’t bitten his lip he feared he would’ve screamed the house down.

He sank back against Sherlock, mindful to put most of his weight on the side where his ribs were uninjured.

"We never managed that bed,” John panted.

“Ah, well, the night is young,” Sherlock said as he shifted beneath John, his whole body relaxed and his voice languid.

John thought he’d probably need weeks to fully process this.

He felt almost lindsided. He hadn’t even realised properly that this was what they were headed for. There was so much he needed to figure out.

… And so much he wanted to try, now that he had realised that he could.

But now – sleep. And cuddling, possibly. In a bed.

Their marital bed, even.

And John rose to his feet and dragged his giggling husband to bed and figured that this would probably all work out absolutely fine.

**Author's Note:**

> The premise for this fic might seem ludicrous but the prompt actually came from real life: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3194368/Foreign-couples-married-Iceland-divorce.html


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